I have met two major celebrities in my life, Muhammad Ali and Moe Howard, of the Three Stooges. Both were great men, and their greatness changed my life. Regarding Moe, I was about 9 years old, and went to see the Three Stooges perform at a small live theater with a couple of friends. This was late in the Stooges’ careers, and they were aged and in no shape to perform the violent physical comedy they were famous for. And they were bitter about their fate, that at this point in their lives, they were forced to go on the road and perform in these ratty little theaters in a room full of brats when once they were the stars of Hollywood. So their performance was rote and perfunctory, lacking the passionate sibling violence for which they were so justly famous. We, their passionate young fans, were disappointed, but a crowd of us assembled outside the venue, with paper and pencil, to get the Stooges autographs. The theater MC came outside to address us, “Kids, the Stooges will be out in 5 minutes to sign your autographs.” Me and my friends were standing at the back of the crowd, and with my deep Stooge insight, I said, “That means they are sneaking out the back, let’s go.” We ran around to the rear of the building and sure enough, coming down the fire escape, carrying suitcases and arguing bitterly amongst themselves were the Stooges! Acting just like the Stooges! Banging into the fire escape and then getting into a black sedan parked all by itself among a few trees, Larry in the drivers seat, Moe in the passenger and number 10 Joe Whatever had the back to himself. We pressed our three noses up against Moe’s window, which he rolled, slowly and rather ceremoniously. He was slumped low in the seat. “Stooges, autographs,” we insisted, waving out writing materials at them. “Get those damn kids away,” yelled Larry, “or we’ll have that whole mob of little brats on us and we’ll never get away.” Moe gave him an arch and condescending look, clearly intending to annoy him, “Larry, these three young gentlemen are our public, our loyal patrons, and without them, we would not be here today.” They stared at each other a moment, and it seemed that violence could erupt between them, but then they busted out laughing and Moe signed and off they went.

About 20 years later, in 1979, I was in New Orleans, for Mardi Gras, but there was a police strike on, so they cancelled most of the parades and the State Police set up roadblocks around the city to prevent tourist from entering when safety could not be guaranteed. As a result, it was the most peaceful and relaxed Mardi Gras imaginable. The party was still on, however and still up and bar hopping until almost 4, and we were ready to call it a night, and we were walking down the empty street, a disorderly and drunken bunch and we saw a dignified and well dressed black couple gazing into the lit window of a store, speaking to themselves. Somebody whispered, “Is that Muhammad Ali?” I looked and it was Muhammad Ali, and I was in dread, because I didn’t want Muhammad Ali to see me in such a condition, rowdy and disorderly. But before I could stop her, my bold companion yelled out, “That’s Muhammed Ali!” and ran up to him and his companion, and began introducing us. They remained very present, didn’t seem off put or offended, but acted like they were being introduced to some significant people that they were going to know for the rest of their lives. He was not an imposing person, physically, especially in his tailored suit coat. I shook his hand and it was a gentle present handshake. I didn’t ask what he was doing in New Orleans at Mardi Gras, since he was a Muslim. Nor did I get his autograph.